Six Stupidities
by itsu-sual
Summary: Prompt: "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him". Hanna/...
1. Stupid No 1

**Stupid No. 1  
**

**Pairing: **Hanna/...  
**Prompt:** "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him."

From the kinkmeme! I don't think I've ever done a prompt from one of those things before.  
I figure I'll do each one as separate chapters. As for this one: there seem to be varying answers for just how much Hanna can see without his glasses, but for the purposes of this drabble let's say he's pretty damn blind /artistic license

* * *

Hanna had some sort of god-given talent for walking into things (both literally and metaphorically – the image of Conrad and Worth tangled together on the rickety operating table would haunt him for the rest of his life). Last week, it had been Imhotep, knocking the pancakes he'd made onto the floor ("sorrysorrysorry!"). The week before that, Hanna walked right into a ditch.

This week he walked face-first into a lamp post – or more accurately, glasses first.

The sad looking spectacles sat in two pieces on the table between Hanna and Gallahad. Not that Hanna could make out much more than two blurry black shapes. It was a miracle, the dead man supposed, with their lifestyle, that Hanna's glasses had survived this long – the lamp post had been the straw that broke the camel's back, it seemed.

"How many fingers?" Jefferson asked sceptically, and Hanna could vaguely make out a green blob raising up.

"…Four? No, Five!...No, definitely four," he said, scrunching his face up to squint harder.

"Two," sighed the dead man. Hanna groaned, letting his head fall with a 'thud' against the table. "Opticians. Tomorrow morning."

So Hanna sat, and Hanna pouted on the sofa while Vladimir made dinner. The sound of knives on chopping boards and the bubbling of a stew rang louder than usual in the quiet apartment – he spared a glance towards the tiny red-head on the couch, who was staring angrily at the ceiling.

"This _sucks_," Hanna muttered irritably. He flipped himself over onto his stomach petulantly with an oh-so-sulky sigh, before grumbling again and turning onto his side. Pietro smiled to himself. Checking the stew one more time, he walked over to the couch, settling himself flush against Hanna's back.

"Hanna," he said softly, mouth pressed against fiery hair, voice lowering, "you don't need them."

"What? Of course I need them, everything's all blurry and stupid without them!" huffed Hanna. Behind him, the dead man shifted just enough to tug his tie off.

"No," he chuckled lightly, draping the thin black material over Hanna's eyes before pulling it tight and knotting the tie at the back. He leaned forward to press his lips against a pale, pink ear, letting his hand drift down to Hanna's side. "I mean you don't _need_ them."

Hanna reached up with an annoyed expression to take the tie off – before suddenly freezing in realization. His mouth formed a perfect little 'o' of surprise, because Tristan was _very_ close indeed, and that hand rubbing little circles on his hips was actually rather nice, and cold lips were pressing along his neck, and really, he didn't need his glasses for this after all.

"Oh!" Hanna gasped quietly as the hand on his hip moved lower, and both the stew and the broken glasses were forgotten.


	2. Stupid No 2

**Stupid No. 2  
**

**Pairing: **Hanna/...  
**Prompt:** "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him."

It's Russian names day, apparently.

* * *

Grigorovich had been pretty content sitting on the couch, reading, when the door exploded open with all the dynamite force of a tiny, red-haired man.

"HE'S GOING TO KILL ME!" Hanna half-whispered, half-shrieked, slamming the door shut behind him frantically. "Oh sweet lord, he's going to kill me!" The smaller man jogged in place for a moment, running his hands through his hair nervously as his eyes darted around the room looking for a good hiding spot.

"Who is?" Dmitry asked sternly, placing his book aside to stand up menacingly. Like _hell_ was anyone going to kill Hanna in his own apartment.

Hanna dived behind the couch, curling up into a ball and rocking back and forth. "_Wooorrrtthhhh_," he hissed, staring up at his undead companion with wide, terrified eyes.

Oh. So no vampires, ghosts, or other paranormal beasties, then. Alexander sighed, relieved, peering down at the ball of Hanna on the floor. "What did you do this time?" he asked patiently.

"What do you mean, what did I-" Hanna stopped at the disbelieving look on Ivan's face. "Ok, fine. _Fine_. I may or may not have implied that the good doctor has the hots for Conrad." Nikolai groaned, just as a fist collided heavily with the front door.

"OPEN THIS BLOODY DOOR, CROSS!" roared Worth from behind it. Hanna muffled a squeak, grabbing at the discarded clothes that had collected behind the couch to try and cover himself. Viktor sighed, smoothing his orange shirt down before walking calmly towards the door.

"DAMN IT HANNA, OPEN THE DOOR BEFORE I-" Vasily opened it, Worth's fist nearly colliding with his chest instead of the now-absent door. "You!" he snarled, trying to look past the tall man to see inside the apartment. "Where is he?!"

"Who?" Alexei asked, brow creasing in a perfectly innocent frown. "Hanna? He said he was going to see Conrad."

"Don't you play stupid with me, zombie!" snapped Worth, still desperately trying to peer over the dead man's shoulders. "You and I both know Cross is hiding in there, and I swear to God when I get my hands on that kid I'm gonna-"

"Going to what?" Sergei asked, deceptively calm, voice like icy water.

Worth stood back to look him in the eye, lip curled with fury. He took a moment to size him up, seeming to only now realize just how tall the corpse standing in front of him was. Orange eyes glowed back down at him, and though Leonid's face was as impassive as ever, a challenge lit his eyes, a dare - _just you try it_.

"_Fine_," Worth grunted. "I'll check Conrad's then." The Doctor snarled wordlessly, turning sharply on his heel to stalk back down the stairs.

Edward shut the door gently, before moving back to the couch and picking his book up again. There was silence for a few minutes (just to make sure, really – Worth was devious enough to have an ear against the front door) before the pile of clothes parted to reveal Hanna staring up at the back of his companion's head with a mixture of awe and adoration.

"Can I make sweet, sweet love to you?" Hanna asked earnestly.

Nicholas chose to ignore the question. "Hanna," he began instead, "what did I tell you about antagonizing ghosts, vampires, werewolves, selkies, monsters, mummies and zombies?"

"…Don't?" the smaller man squeaked.

"Good," he said, turning the page of his book. "Now add Worth to that list."


	3. Stupid No 3

**Stupid No. 3  
**

**Pairing: **Hanna/...  
**Prompt:** "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him."

Agh, I know someone did a fic similar to this scenario, but I felt like I couldn't _not _do a sick!Hanna thing for this prompt! I hope it's different enough to still be interesting.

* * *

It's not that cold, really, he said. Don't be silly, I don't need a jacket, he said. Heh, my hair isn't that wet, leave the hat behind, he said. Churchill looks down at the miserable lump of Hanna curled up on the mattress with a frown. A muffled, chesty cough comes from underneath the blankets, followed by a long groan. He shakes his head.

"Let me be the first to tell you that you brought this on yourself," Pelham says irritably. He kneels next to the mattress, pulling down the covers to reveal Hanna's face.

"Whoa, whoa, hey now," Hanna laughs hoarsely, "who is this sarcastic dead man sitting next to my bed? What'd you do with my nice zombie?"

"Your 'nice zombie' _told_ you so," Addington says, so seriously that Hanna can't help but giggle. Grenville carefully measures out a spoon of medicine while Hanna starts coughing again. "I mean it, Hanna," he continues as he pushes Hanna up into a sitting position, shoving the nasty liquid into the smaller man's mouth before he can protest, "you need to dress up warm, or this is what happens."

Hanna just makes a face, shuddering when he swallows the cough medicine. "Bleehh," he mutters, sticking out his tongue, and Perceval isn't sure if it's in response to him or the medicine. Probably both. Another violent cough wracks Hanna's thin frame, the force of it enough to make the small man collapse down onto the mattress. "Ohhh…I want my nice zombie back," he moans sadly. "Where did he go, Campbell?"

'Campbell' smiles softly, leaning down to kiss Hanna's hot forehead. "Right here," he murmurs, dragging his knuckles through sticky red-hair. He takes a moment, now that Hanna is actually relatively _still_ for once, to inspect the smaller man's face – dark circles around his eyes, skin a little less pink than usual (except for his nose – that's pretty red right now. In fact, Hanna is looking sort of Conrad-grey). Wilson snorts, running a cold finger over a puffy eyelid. "You look like me."

"'S not a bad thing," Hanna mumbles with a devious smile, tugging at Callaghan's tie to pull him down into a lazy kiss.

The dead man rolls his eyes, and the small action is enough to make Hanna laugh (and cough) with delight. "Only you, Hanna," he says with a dramatic sigh, as if under some great hardship – but he can't keep it up for long. He presses his nose to the bunged-up one below him. "Only you would want a corpse in their bed," he says lovingly.

"Nuh-uh!" Hanna protests with a pout. "Doc Worth keeps Conrad in his! He's pretty dead too y'know!" Fitzroy makes a disgusted noise at the thought of what those two might get up to, pushing back the covers to curl up against the living man. Hanna's grin widens, and he clumsily shuffles back to make more room. "Hey…you wanna know a secret?" he whispers conspiratorially.

"If it's about Worth and Conrad, then no," Watson replies bluntly.

The red-head laughs like a chain-smoker, sounding more like Mrs. Blaney than his usual voice. He leans up to cup his hands around Bentinck's ear. "I like you as my Doctor more than Worth," Hanna sighs quietly, content.

"Sleep now, Hanna," the dead man smiles, running a gentle hand along Hanna's cheek. Then, he grins with the afterthought - "Doctor's orders."


	4. Stupid No 4

**Stupid No. 4  
**

**Pairing: **Hanna/...  
**Prompt:** "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him."

Thank you for the reviews! Haha I never expect any cause this section of the site is so small.  
Also ugh, this chapter is so damn sappy and angsty. Sorry about that.

* * *

Hanna sits quiet and still on the kitchen counter (which, in and of itself, is worrying, since he's only quiet when he's a) very ill or b) thinking very, very hard) while Niels takes care of today's injuries.

A hundred little red, sore lumps mark the smaller man's body, each one needing to be wiped down with alcohol and inspected at Theodore's insistence. He'd expected unicorn bites, scrapes with vampires, bruises from ghouls – but a _wasp's nest_? He wasn't even sure how Hanna had managed to find the wretched thing. Apparently the insects didn't think much of it either; Hanna had run up to him in the park looking particularly miserable and a bit like he'd caught a bad case of chicken-pox. He curses himself a little for letting Hanna out of his sight (even if it _was_ to go and buy him ice cream).

There's a hiss of pain as he wipes disinfectant over a particularly nasty sting, and he looks up apologetically at Hanna's scrunched up face, placing a little kiss next to the red skin. The small man smiles weakly at him, and so it continues in heavy silence.

Half an hour later (40 stings down, who knows how many more to go) and Gabriel is wondering whether he should say something to break the quiet – but then, suddenly, Hanna sighs deeply.

"I bet you were super cool when you were alive," he says with a small, sad smile.

Otto gives him a smile back, raising his eyebrows just a fraction. "What makes you say that?" he asks, if only for the sake of keeping Hanna talking.

The red-head shrugs. "You're super cool now," he replies, feigning nonchalance. Ludwig stops with the sting on Hanna's left wrist and looks up at him expectantly – Hanna isn't fooling anyone here – waiting for him to continue with what's _really_ on his mind. The living man's expression falters, and he looks down at his lap guiltily. "I don't know…it's just, like…I can't imagine anyone as awesome as you being friends with…well, someone like _me_ if they were still alive."

"Sorry," Nathan whispers, looking a little dismayed.

"No, no, I don't mean it like that!" Hanna says frantically, waving his arms around to match (and nearly spilling the disinfectant in the process). "You're awesome as a zombie, seriously. But…but if you _weren't_ dead, would you ever…ever have come to find me? Ever been friends with me?"

Ferdinand takes Hanna's hands into his own and kisses them. "I don't know," he says between kisses, "I don't remember any friends, or anything much at all" – Gustav pushes himself up to continue placing kisses about Hanna's face – "and I _certainly_ don't remember ever feeling the way I feel for you."

Hanna smiles, leaning into Wolfgang's touches – but then Eugene pushes him back a little, cold hands on warm shoulders, to look Hanna in the eye. "Does it bother you?" he asks seriously.

The smaller man looks away, bites his lip a little, before turning and burying his face against Linus' neck (cold skin, he discovers, feels very nice indeed on wasp stings). "I-it's not important, really," he mumbles sheepishly. "I was just...you know."

"Just what?" Lester asks gently, holding Hanna tight.

"I was so alone, before you came," whispers Hanna. He flinches a little at the memory – the same way he always does when Michail tries to ask about his past. "Not just lonely, y'know – literally, all alone. Only Doc Worth and Mrs Blaney. That was it, for…for such a long time. If I'd died-"

"_Don't_," Jan groans into Hanna's hair, squeezing the smaller man ever closer. "Don't talk like that. I won't leave you," he says seriously, "you'll never be alone again. I promise."

Hanna breathes deeply, finding comfort in the dusty smell of Luther's dry, green skin. "I know," he sighs, and when Finn feels a smile against his neck, he knows Hanna will be okay.


	5. Stupid No 5

**Stupid No. 5  
**

**Pairing: **Hanna/...  
**Prompt:** "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him."

Homigosh, so this is the last Hanna!Stupid. Next up it's Zombie's turn.  
I wanted to do something a bit longer since this is the last Hanna one. It's probably really cliche and full of tense-changes (my biggest weakness!).

* * *

Hanna Falk Cross testified to the fact that his undead roommate could make expressions other than "neutral", but none of the gang really _believed_ it. Which was strange, because nobody had any trouble believing Hanna when he told them about his encounter with a yeti back when he was 21, being that the gang was comprised of vampires, werewolves, zombies, selkies and…whatever Doc Worth was. Guy was too damn creepy to be human, that was for sure. But the tall, dark and gruesome dead guy? Smiling? Angry? No way.

That is, until, Hanna got in the way of a mummy.

More specifically, a mummy who was about to take a swipe at Leonidas. The dead man could have taken the mummy easily, of course, had he not been looking the other way to try and find Hanna's hammer. The scene played out in slow motion – Hanna saw the knife-like talons, and, being Hanna, he acted on impulse, shoving his dead roommate out of the way.

The mummy's nails slashed right through Hanna's shirt, slicing the skin on his back like ribbons. Which wouldn't have needed more than stitches, but the force of the blow sent Hanna crashing head-first into a wall, instantly knocking him out.

Waits could do nothing but look on in horror…until his hand fell upon the hammer. Conrad and Toni hurried to take care of Hanna. The mummy screeched. And Calvin _roared_.

The sound chilled the vampire and werewolf down to their bones, and they turned and froze at the sight of Sebastian smashing the mummy right in the face with Hanna's hammer. His eyes glowed red. He ripped and tore at the mummy with his free hand, bringing the hammer down over and over and over, cursing wordlessly until finally, _finally_ the awful thing was still.

Then he turned to his terrified friends, huddled around Hanna's limp body. "What are you _doing_?!" he bellowed at them, stalking over to lift Hanna into his arms. "Call Worth, tell him to get his things ready," he snapped coldly, slinging the living man over his shoulder carefully, before running off into the night.

For a long while, Conrad and Toni just sat frozen in shock.

* * *

Michelangelo announced their presence by kicking Worth's door clean off its hinges. Fortunately, Worth was waiting with a table ready, since Conrad had gathered enough of his senses to phone him ("Zombie on a rampage coming your way with Hanna, if you value your life do not, I repeat, _do not_ be a dick about it this time"). Salvador placed Hanna with a disproportionate amount of care down onto the table, laying him gently on his stomach so Worth could get to his bloody back. He shrugged off his coat, folding it up as a pillow for the red-head, before finally allowing Worth to wheel him into the (only) clean room at the back.

There wasn't really a whole lot Worth could do; he cleaned the deep cuts as best he could, stitched them back together – he even dug out an IV drip (which he assured Renoir was in perfect condition, but the dead man had some serious doubts about that). Eisner sat beside the operating table all the while, never letting his gaze wander from Hanna, save the occasional glare at Worth when he deemed the Doctor to be too rough with a stitch.

"He's gonna have one hell of a concussion when he wakes up," Worth grunted as he finished up the last stitches on Hanna's back.

Warhol nodded absently, not really listening. In the time it had taken for Worth to sort out Hanna's back, his anger seemed to have dissipated, leaving him with an air of despair that made Worth more uncomfortable than the anger. Anger, he could deal with. But heck, he didn't know the first thing to say to a miserable zombie.

"I'm sorry about your door," Vasari said eventually, voice tired and hollow.

Worth fixed him with an odd look, but then just shrugged, looking away. "Just glad somebody gives a shit about this kid," he muttered awkwardly. "'M done. He won't be awake for a while. You might wanna go ho-"

"I'm staying," Poe interrupted firmly, and the look in his dark eyes said that there was no way in hell Worth was going to argue with him. The Doctor shrugged and left him to it, closing the door to the shabby room out of some vague respect.

Abercrombie looked back down at Hanna's still form. There was a pained look on the pale man's face, and he shifted Hanna onto his side, bunching up his coat to make a better pillow of it. Running one hand down Hanna's side, he looked carefully around the room for something to cover the small man with – his chequered shirt lay ruined on the floor. Nothing; he unbuttoned his orange shirt, draping it over the skinny body.

"You need it more than me," he murmured. No reaction. He let his head fall against the cold metal of the table, breathing shakily.

"Damn it, Hanna."

* * *

At some point, Conrad and Toni arrived with Veser. He thought he could hear ticking; Ples must've been with them.

Worth refused to let them see Hanna, and he was grateful for it. It was selfish, and he knew it, but he didn't want anybody else near the smaller man just then. He could hear Conrad arguing with Worth in hushed whispers. He knew they did it just for comfort, to make themselves feel as if everything was normal, and that was okay until Toni decided she'd had enough and dragged them all home.

He reached out for Hanna's hand, seeking comfort of his own, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the warm hand squeezing back.

"Mn…Leonidas…" Hanna mumbled. The name he'd been using earlier. If his heart wasn't already still, the dead man was sure it would have stopped just then. The red-head let out a little moan, shuddered a little shiver – and then with a sigh, his breathing resumed its slow, sleepy pace.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later, Hanna wakes up.

"I feel like somebody clubbed me over the head," he announces to nobody in particular. Blake looks up sharply, standing quickly enough to knock over the stool he'd been sitting on for the past two days. Hanna blinks up at him owlishly, glasses somewhere on the other side of the room.

"…Hanna?..." he whispers, not quite convinced he isn't dreaming.

The red-head smiles up at him. "Hey," he grins.

He didn't think he could still cry. Certainly, his tear ducts no longer work. But he finds himself collapsing next to Hanna, sobbing and choking, shoulders shaking violently with all the pent up emotion of the last two days. Hanna tries to sit up, and he's vaguely aware of pushing the smaller man back down before he makes the inevitable concussion worse. The living man settles for petting at him, trying to lift his chin to look him in the face or tug him into a hug. He allows the latter, careful of the stitches holding Hanna's back together.

"Byron? Byron? Hey, come on, it's okay, don't…wow. You're crying. That's so cool, I didn't know you could still…wait no, crap, don't cry! Please don't cry!"

Chaucer shuts him up with a firm kiss, quick and unexpected and producing a little "mmf!" from Hanna. "Hanna," he breathes heavily, still trembling and choking, "my darling Hanna…"

"It's okay," the red-head says soothingly, tipping their foreheads together, "I'm okay, see?"

"Jesus Christ, don't you ever do that to me again," Crowley moans.

Hanna grins back at him – but his expression soon falters. "What…ah…what did I do? Cause you know, I have no idea," he says honestly.

Elliot just laughs, pulling Hanna closer and kissing him for all he's worth. Later, he'll lecture the tiny man on why zombies should take the hits and why small Hannas should not. Later, he'll scold the red-head for being reckless. Later, he'll make Hanna seriously consider purchasing some sort of bullet (or knife) –proof vest.

But right now, he's just happy that Hanna is still alive.


	6. Stupid No 6

**Stupid No. 6  
**

**Pairing: **Hanna/...  
**Prompt:** "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him."

Last chapter guys! This time it's zombie's turn to do something stupid :D  
This one is very much inspired by a picture on deviantart by rad-i-cal. Also, all those headless people in zombie's venture into his mind.

* * *

The situation, as far as Hanna could make out, was as follows:

Adrian's left leg was on the top step. The lower half of his right leg was stuck between some of the banisters lower down, while the rest of it was just-about attached to him. The cardboard box which had been holding Hanna's stuff was at the bottom of the stairs, and said stuff was spread out all along the corridor. Both of Eddie's arms were still holding onto the box, though the rest of him was a good few feet away. His head was at a rather unpleasant and anatomically impossible angle, and his right shoulder wasn't looking too promising either. The second box of stuff he'd brought out of storage was empty, but in the same place he'd left it. And the stuff that _should_ have been in it was also littering up the place. Lydon groaned, sounding very pained indeed, and the noise was enough to shock the smaller man out of his inspection of the scene.

Hanna's brain spat out only one logical reaction to the sight;

"WHAT."

* * *

It takes him half an hour to move all of Phillip into the apartment (who knew dead guys were so damn heavy? Dude looks like he's all skin and bones), with a few breaks in-between to accommodate Mrs Blaney yelling at him about the mess.

"What the hell happened?" Hanna asks as he finally gets the last of his stuff inside his tiny home.

"I just…the box was too heavy," Skelton says awkwardly, looking away. If he could still blush, Hanna is convinced the dead man would be bright red about now. "I thought that I could get everything up the stairs in just the one box, but it was heavy enough to rip the stitching on my arms. Then, once it fell, it knocked me down, and then…yeah."

Hanna grins widely, but resists the urge to tease him. After all, he _is_ the master of doing stupid things. Pot calling the kettle black, and all that. Instead, he fishes out a needle and some heavy-duty thread, and wonders where the hell to start.

"Neck first?" he suggests, and Nahum would shrug if his shoulders were still on right. The stitching is torn on one side of his neck; it looks a lot worse than it is. All he has to do is…wait. Hanna pauses, looking closer. "Hey, did…did something happen to your neck when you…y'know…when you died?"

Derek frowns. "I don't know. Why?"

Hanna says nothing for a moment – then shakes his head. "Nah, it's just, funny angle is all. Probably just knocked it outta place when you fell," he says, and starts to stitch it back up. It's slow, tedious work, but there's a comforting rhythm to it and the two sit (or lie spread about the room, as the case may be) in amicable silence as Hanna repairs Kendrick, stitch by stitch, line by line, limb by limb, all through the afternoon. He sticks his tongue out in concentration, and Lawson can't help but think it's sorta cute. The dead man sighs contentedly. He's sort of surprised that Hanna doesn't get bored and whine about it after a while; the younger man has the attention span of a speck of dust, after all.

"Is it ok?" Hanna asks through a mouth full of thread, working on the last of his injuries – the ripped, right shoulder.

"Not so bad," Kennedy says. It's kind of nice to be taken care of – Hanna's resting him over his legs, and they're warm and comfortable. The prick-prick of the needle and thread even becomes sort of…_relaxing_ after a while. He imagines it must be something a little bit like acupuncture. His eyes drift up to Hanna's tongue again, still sticking out, pink and shiny.

He feels Hanna pulling the last thread tight, and before the smaller man can even say "done", he pushes himself up to take the pink tongue into his mouth, holding it between his lips and sucking on it slowly, gently. He can feel Hanna's cheeks turning red and hot where his hands rest on them, blushing furiously until he finally lets go.

"Thank you," Jack smiles, pressing his nose up against Hanna's.

For the second time that day, Hanna can only come up with one response;

"Wh-what…?!"


	7. Bonus

**"Conclusion"  
**

**Pairings: **Hanna/...**  
Warnings:** Minor swearing, hinting :3**  
**

So I didn't really want to start a whole new story, since this isn't massively long. Therefore I am tacking this on the end here as a bonus story!

* * *

He comes to the conclusion that, if there was someone he really, truly loved, he would at least remember the feeling, if not the person. The sense of something, of _someone_ missing from his afterlife. The same feeling of Lee's ghost passing through his cold, dead body, of loving something to the point of obsession and having no idea what or who it was.

He doesn't remember much about these things. It makes him feel old sometimes (does it count as aging if he's already dead, or is he just rotting?), to know that ten years have passed and he's hopelessly clueless about the ever-changing social structures of modern youth. But more worryingly, he doesn't quite remember what's acceptable, what this or that touch means, who can kiss who or what or where without it meaning something more.

It starts, he thinks, unconsciously (he's still not sure how conscious of it all Hanna really is). A moment of panic where Hanna reaches for his hand like a child seeking safety. He takes Hanna's hand in his without question, instinctively, and the living man looks almost surprised, as if _he's_ the one who reached out. Then Hanna gives his hand a squeeze and lets go, and that's the end of it.

But Hanna reaches out again, and again – a few fingers pinching at the sleeves of his jacket, warm digits brushing against his cool skin, and surely, surely that must mean something? He takes petty, secret pride in the fact that Hanna doesn't do it to anyone else. Later, he agonizes over it in the middle of the night; is Hanna trying to comfort him, to give him that touch of life he never knew he craved before, or is he trying to comfort Hanna?

For the living man, it becomes natural. Never questioned, never talked about. He takes the dead man's hand is his while he talks at a thousand miles an hour, swinging their arms back and forth like an overexcited five year old, and the zombie can't hear a word Hanna is saying because he's too busy wondering whether this is something friends do nowadays, whether it's just Hanna, whether it means something or absolutely nothing at all. And those hands, those pale pink hands are so warm and so soft and hold his palm so gently that he never wants to let go.

The touches spread, from hands to arms to shoulders, and each time he can't help wanting just a little bit more. Hanna loops their elbows together sometimes (it's a little difficult to get right, because Hanna's pretty short, and he's pretty tall), wraps an arm around his shoulder in that way he sees Worth do to Conrad (and oh how the vampire hates that, but what does it mean for them, what does it mean?). And sometimes, on rare occasions where they just sit and talk and Hanna is quiet and sleepy, the smaller man will rest his head against his shoulder and be still.

Which, Gallahad thinks, is all very well, because _those_ things, those he can pass off as friendship.

What he can't quite wrap his head around, more so than holding hands or linking elbows or leaning against each other, is kissing Hanna on the cheek. He's not sure who started it anymore, but before he knew it, the mornings started with a kiss to a warm cheek, and the days ended with warm lips pressing against a cold, stitched-up jaw. Good morning, Hanna, and good night, zombie. And _that_ he is _absolutely_ sure is crossing the line between friendship and something else.

He doesn't want to say anything. What if Hanna takes it the wrong way? What if those little touches become worried flinches? No, he likes the attention, the heat of a living person near his dead flesh…but it's never enough. The cold kiss he wakes Hanna with inches closer and closer to the redhead's mouth every morning. If Hanna has noticed, he certainly hasn't said anything. He likes to think (to hope) that Hanna would do the same if he could reach more than just his chin, even on tiptoes. He's started to lean down for his nightly kiss just to see.

But then when his hand brushes against Conrad's as he passes him a bag of blood under the table down in the Rabbit Hole, or when Worth slaps him on the back and bitches at him for letting Hanna do something stupid again…nothing. So he comes to his second conclusion; it's not touch he's craving, or the warmth of living, human skin - it's just Hanna. Darling Hanna, sweet Hanna, little Hanna, who he so dearly wants to cradle and call stupid, affectionate names in a lovely parody of the weird and wonderful titles the redhead invents for him.

Then one night, he leans down for his goodnight kiss, and Hanna kisses him on the mouth.

"Goodnight, Ernest," Hanna says pleasantly, sleepily, and clumsily crawls into bed the same way he does every night. The dead man spends the night sitting on a park bench, both more confused and happier than he's ever been since rising from the grave. In the morning, he kisses Hanna's lips, and his still heart swells when it's returned with a little "mmf" and a "mornin'".

And so it continues, each morning and nightly kiss lasting a little longer than the previous. Yet…(and oh, he hates himself for this) it's still. Not. Enough. He's not exactly sure what he wants anymore, and he panics when the only answer he can come up with is 'everything'. He wants to kiss Hanna when and as he pleases without consequence, without having to worry about the red-haired man pulling away. He wants to know that this isn't just Hanna's odd concept of friendship, that Hanna doesn't do this to Toni, to Conrad, to Veser. And most of all, he wants to stop the terrible guilt that comes after locking himself in the bathroom while Hanna is at work, thinking only of flushed cheeks, muffled moans and "oh, more, more"s.

Tonight his heart is heavy, chopping carrots while Hanna leans against the kitchen counter babbling about something a customer did (or his manager, maybe, he wasn't really listening again).

"Are you my boyfriend?"

The knife goes straight through his finger, but he doesn't even notice (it doesn't hurt as much as it should anyway). "W-what?"

"Jeez, you…be careful! Shit, look, you cut it right off!" Hanna frowns, turning to search about the tiny kitchenette. "Where'd we leave the needle and thread?"

He ignores him, choking on his words. "Do you…want me to be your…y-your boyfriend?"

Hanna turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in surprise – then he rolls his eyes and smiles. "_No_, Sherlock, I've been kissing you because it's how I get my maaagical pooowers!" Hanna says sarcastically, wiggling his fingers in a dramatic fashion before shuffling closer to wrap his arms around the dead man's waist. "'Course I do. But only if you want us to be…y'know. Like that. I don't wanna force you or anything."

He answers by shoving Hanna against the refrigerator, ignoring the stump of finger lying with the carrots in favor of kissing the redhead the way he's wanted to for months. And _oh_, it's so nice to be kissed back the same way, and those little muffled squeaks Hanna's making might just be the nicest thing he's ever heard.

Then Hanna pulls back for air, gasping with a goofy grin on his face, and he's pretty sure he's grinning too.


End file.
